Tyche's Flight (Tyche's Journey Book 1)

by Richard Parry

  “How did you know—” said Evans.

  “The thing about downed transmitters,” said Grace, “is that sometimes they’re downed, and sometimes they’re up and everyone’s dead. In the second instance, there’s salvage, and we want it. It’ll make the trip worthwhile even if you try and stiff us on the other eighty percent.” Grace looked at Nate. “You went for the standard eighty-twenty we talked about?”

  “I … did,” said Nate, thinking well fuck me, but roll with it. He turned back to Evans, turning on his own smile. “I did.”

  “How did you know—” said Evans, again.

  “Everyone knows,” said Grace. “This bar is full of people who know. They know your precious Bridge is down, and that you don’t have any Endless ships to spare, and that there’s a colony out there ripe for piracy at the other end of that Bridge. We,” and she jerked a thumb at her chest, “have an Endless ship. We have an Endless ship with a cargo bay large enough to hold a new transmitter. Also got an Engineer who can bolt that right on the side of your gate, fire it up, and get things working again, even if everyone’s dead.”

  “Why would everyone be dead?” said Evans, blinking.

  “Pirates,” said Grace. “We were just talking about that.”

  “And we need,” said Nate, slipping into the silence like it was made for him, “those ship-to-ship nukes. For the pirates. Who may have killed everyone. Not our first rodeo, Lieutenant. Not our first salvage run either. Grace here will take what’s lawful salvage and leave the rest. You know our records. You know how we work.”

  “Yes,” said Evans, looking like he was downing cheap tequila, salt, and lime, except without the salt or lime. “We know your records, which is why there will be no Avenger-class weapons given over. Not only is it illegal to provide these to civilian ships, it would cause me to lose sleep at night.”

  Fair enough. Nate frowned, but had to admit he wouldn’t put nukes in the hands of the Tyche’s crew either. Not after that incident back on Century Gamma. Unlucky for everyone, kind of a lose-lose, but less lose for the people with the nukes, which had been the Tyche. “So, Lieutenant,” said Nate. “We know what we’re hauling now — transmitter. We can live without the nukes. But we can’t live without the twenty percent.”

  “I could,” said the Marine, speaking for the first time, and astonishing everyone, and not least of which because his voice was gentle in a way not common with the Marines, “rough him up a little.”

  “You could,” said October Kohl, coming up behind the Marine, leaning close enough to kiss, and nuzzling a blaster next to the man’s neck, “not live past the next five minutes.” He looked up at Nate. “Captain. I could rough him up a little.” Kohl looked and smelled drunk, which was a standard state of affairs, but his eyes were bright. Like the Marine, he was a solid mound of muscle. Unlike the Marine, he had scars, a bad set of locks in dire need of washing or trimming or just burning, and what Nate was sure was an unhealthy desire to kill people. Which was why he was useful. The Marine’s eyes had gone wide, his posture stiff in a way that suggested he knew the kind of man who had a gun to the side of his head.

  “I think we’ve about established how this will work,” said Nate to Evans. “Would you agree?”

  “I would agree,” said Evans. “I’ll be in touch with the Tyche to arrange the details.”

  “Great,” said Nate. “You want to be talking to El. She’s our Helm.” He gave a glance to Kohl. “You could…” He waved his hand, the one still made of flesh and blood.

  “Kill this asshole?”

  “No,” said Nate. “Let him go.”

  Kohl looked like he was thinking about it, really thinking about it, about whether this was the time he would push the limits of his contract. He relaxed, letting the Marine go, and slapped a hand on the other man’s shoulder. “Sorry about that. No hard feelings.”

  The Marine rubbed the side of his neck where the blaster had been. “Sure,” he said, because there wasn’t much else to say when there was a man right behind you with a blaster in his hand and murder in his heart.

  The Marine and the lieutenant slipped out of the booth, leaving the bar, the Marine glancing over his shoulder, Kohl giving the man a friendly wave before slipping into the booth across from Nate and Grace. He looked at Nate. “Who’s this?”

  “I’m Grace,” said Grace, flashing that smile.

  “Was I,” said Kohl, “fucking talking to you?” He was slurring a little. He seemed to see the sword on the table for the first time. “Nice sword.”

  “Thank you,” said Grace. “I’m—”

  “Still not,” said Kohl, “talking to you.” He blinked, coughed, and looked at Nate. “Captain?”

  “Kohl raises a good question,” said Nate. “Who the fuck are you?”

  “Grace Gushiken,” said Grace, “your new Assessor.”

  “Hell of a way to interview for a job,” said Nate, “but we’re full. And we don’t need an Assessor.”

  “Yes you do,” said Grace. “Be honest, Nate—”

  “Captain Chevell,” said Nate. “Let’s start with that.”

  “Captain Chevell,” said Grace, still a hint of a smile about her, “those men wouldn’t tell you anything. Not about the cargo. Not about the transmitter. And sure as stars, not about what’s going on at Absalom Delta.” She looked at his metal hand. “You look like you might know what the Republic lying to you feels like.”

  Nate’s eyes moved to the door of the bar, a couple walking in. They were laughing, her hand on his. He bent to whisper in her ear, and they moved to the bar. The bartender with the glowing green braids put a couple of drinks in front of them, sweeping Republic coins away like they’d never existed, like it was a magic trick to make things disappear before your eyes. Nate watched Grace Gushiken watch those two enter, watched her watch them move to the bar, and then he watched as she pretended she wasn’t watching them. “So, Grace,” he said. “You seem to know the Republic pretty well yourself.”

  “Better than you know,” she said, relaxing into her seat, which — not coincidentally, Nate thought — lowered her from view.

  “And why should I take you on my crew?” he said.

  “Because you need me,” she said.

  “And because you need me,” said Nate, looking at the couple at the bar. They were still laughing, and talking, but their eyes were scanning the crowd. “Why?”

  “I need to get off this rock,” she said. “An Assessor doesn’t make coin sitting in a spacer bar.”

  That, right there, was the first time she lied to him. Not about her name, as near as Nate could tell, but about what she was. Not that she wasn’t a great Assessor; she may well have been. It was impossible to tell from the vantage of this fine spacer bar. Didn’t matter: it’s that she was so much more. Nate could feel it, feel it like he could sometimes feel the old pain where his left arm and leg had been burned away in cleansing fire. Feel it like warm sun on his face when they were on a beautiful planet like this Enia Alpha, a gentle 0.9Gs tugging at him, a yellow sun in the sky above. But he could also feel that there was something about her. She had tugged that tiger by the tail like she owned the damn tail, and Nate felt an instant like for anyone who could stick it to the Republic.

  Nate looked at October. “Kohl,” he said, “do you want to fight?”

  Kohl thought about it. “I don’t know, Captain. You and me? It’ll be hard for you to give orders without your teeth.”

  “Not me,” said Nate. “Those two at the bar.”

  Kohl turned around, the faux leather booth seat creaking under his weight. He turned back. “How much you want ’em hurt?”

  “I want ’em hurt enough to let us get to our ship without being followed.”

  “Great,” said Kohl, rising.

  “Could you,” said Nate, “wait for us to go? You know how I love watching you work, but—”

  “But you want ’em distracted as you go, so I can get ’em from behind,” said Kohl. “It doesn�
�t seem fair. I like it.”

  Grace was already slipping from the booth seat, a dancer’s flow in her movements. She gathered the sword from the table like it weighed nothing, slung the scabbard’s belt over her shoulder, and gave Nate a glance. Something fearful behind the play. “You ready?”

  “I’m ready,” said Nate, but this time he was lying to himself. Not that he knew it. None of them knew what was coming.

  CHAPTER TWO

  October Kohl was drunk. He knew it. That asshole who was eyeing him up knew it. The bartender knew it. The proprietor of the brothel he’d just been thrown out of knew it. The question — then — was not whether he was drunk, but whether it would hold him up any. He put a hand out in front of him, looking at the way it drifted in space.

  It wasn’t waving all over the place, but it wasn’t steady as a rock either. That meant no guns, because Kohl wanted to drink here again, and shooting people who weren’t supposed to be shot was one of the best ways to never get back in. As Nate had explained to him, there were rules, and polite people didn’t shoot people who didn’t deserve it.

  Kohl rose, taking a look around the bar. There were people here who deserved it, sure as ships flew, but he could already feel the look Nate would give him. So, no guns. He made sure his blaster was holstered, nice and secure, clip fastened over the top. It took him a try or two but he got there in the end. When he looked up, that asshole who’d been eyeing him up was right in front of him. Big asshole too, bunch of ink down one side of his neck, none of that glowy shit popular out here on the rim worlds, straight black needled right under the skin. Had a rivet in his forehead — a goddamn rivet, for fuck’s sake — planted above the guy’s right eye. Could be cosmetic, or could be because he had a bunch of metal in his head and that was the best way of solving the problem.

  “Coins,” said the asshole.

  Kohl swayed, put a hand on the side of the booth that Nate and wossername, Grace, Grace, that was it, had just left. Looked the asshole in the eye. “Fuck off,” he said.

  “I—”

  “No,” said Kohl, “really. Look,” and here, he realized he was slurring more than he’d expected, “I’m trying to work.”

  “Work?” The asshole looked a little surprised.

  “Yeah,” said Kohl. “I need to punch some fools.”

  “I think you’re too drunk to—” started the asshole, before Kohl slammed a fist into his stomach. The guy, coughed, tried to stand, and that was just a bad move, because you should stay down when you’re outmatched, but not everybody worked that way. So Kohl grabbed fistfuls of the asshole’s jacket, and yanked the man forward into a headbutt. The impact was hard, but not too hard, which meant that rivet was cosmetic. He let the asshole slump to the floor, out like a cheap drive from Venus, and stepped over him en route to the bar.

  Joni was behind the bar, those green braids of her glowing like a set of emergency beacons, and she saw Kohl on his way over. “October,” she said, “no.”

  Kohl locked on to those green braids like lights guiding him in to land in a storm. The couple Nate had asked him to delay were already looking over, which was fine, because this wasn’t surprise work. He made it to the bar, jostling hard against the woman, knocking her a little sideways into the man and spilling her drink. Kohl got a good look at them. Trim and fit. Drinks untouched, holding right at the top of the water line from when they’d bought them. Dressed in dark spacer overalls, which meant they weren’t spacers at all, because no crew Kohl knew of kept their damn jumpsuits on when they were shoreside. It was like they’d seen a holo about spacer bars before going into this particular one, which meant two things.

  First, because of how they were dressed, they were not spacers. No crime against that, rich people sometimes wanted to rub against the dirt, and Kohl was no particular judge on how people got their thrills.

  Second, because of their untouched drinks, they were trying to keep sharp, because they wanted trouble, or because they were on duty, or both. That there meant the captain was right in wanting to delay them. Could be wrong too, if they were Republic agents of one shape or another, but Kohl didn’t much care.

  “Hey,” said the woman. “Hey!”

  “Hey,” agreed Kohl, and counted Republic coins onto the bar.

  “October Kohl, no.” Joni tried to push them back at him. “Kohl? Are you listening to me? Not tonight. Not again.”

  “It’s okay,” said the man, holding a hand up to Joni. “Man just wants to buy us a drink to apologize.”

  “That’s not it,” said Joni. “October Kohl, you stop right now.”

  “Sorry, Joni,” said Kohl. “Captain’s orders.” He examined the pile of coins, then tossed another on for good measure. “There.”

  “Your captain wanted you to buy us a drink?” said the man, not understanding despite being more sober than Kohl. Could well have been all the way sober as Kohl figured things.

  “That’s not it,” said Kohl. “Captain’s gone. This is for damage to the bar.”

  The man gave a glance over to the booth where Nate had been, said something that sounded like shit, and tried to push past Kohl towards the exit. Kohl put an arm against the man’s chest and gave a gentle push. The man stumbled back against the bar, knocking into the woman, spilling her drink again. She really should put that thing down.

  Joni gave Kohl a last, angry glare, then slammed her hand under the bar. There was a rattle, and metal shutters slid down over the top of the bar, locking her in. The lights in the bar came up, causing Kohl to squint, which was why the man’s fist caught him in the side of the face. It wasn’t that he was drunk — he might still have worn a fist to the face, but he would have seen the damn thing coming.

  That’s how he landed on his back, staring at the ceiling, those damn bright lights above him. The woman was saying something to the man, using words like move and backup and kill him, which were all the wrong words for a bar fight. And the man was pulling out some kind of communicator, a slick little thing that had black ops written all over it. It wasn’t that it was slick and black, it was that green lazed out of it, falling in quick raindrops of colored light over the interior of the bar. It made Kohl laugh.

  They both paused and looked down at Kohl. He pushed himself up on an elbow, held up a hand to forestall being punched in the face a second time, then levered himself to his feet. Pointed at the communicator. “That’s not very discrete,” he said.

  The man looked at the communicator, then at his fist, no doubt wondering at it’s lack of effect. “I—”

  “Because,” said Kohl, “it’s got black ops written all over it, little toy like that. What’s it doing, taking our pictures and getting backup?”

  “That’s the size of it,” said the woman.

  Kohl turned his neck to the left, then the right, rewarded with a series of pops. “Last time I was in a situation like this, the backup wanted to kill everyone.”

  “They—” said the man.

  “I don’t care,” said Kohl.

  “You don’t?” said the man.

  “No,” said Kohl. “You do what you need to, right? Right? I’m here as a, what would you call it, a delaying tactic. Also, I owe you one.” With that, he slammed his fist into the side of the man’s face. The guy tumbled back against the bar, kind of loose in the limbs like he wasn’t piloting anymore, which turned out to be the case as he slumped to the floor. The woman looked at this, then smashed her glass against the bar, holding up the broken stem, and trying to stab Kohl in the face with it.

  That’d be why she kept holding that damn drink, thought Kohl. He caught her arm, the broken stem spinning out across the bar, and he punched her in the face for good measure. She hit the deck right next to her partner.

  Kohl was about to give himself a virtual pat on the back for a job well done when two things happened.

  First, someone hit him in the back with a chair. This was supposed to hit Kohl in the back of the head, but misjudged timing or the second thing
skewed the aim and all it did was hurt, but a lot, dropping him to one knee amidst the woman’s spilled drink and shards from her broken glass.

  Second, a bunch of other assholes burst in the front of the bar, and fired into the room. The person who’d hit Kohl in the back with a chair — turned out, it was the first asshole with the rivet in his head — got caught in a fusillade of plasma. The plasma picked him up, tossed the body across the room, and what landed was in pieces and on fire.

  So it was good, in a way, that Kohl had been hit in the back and dropped like a dress on prom night, not that he’d been to a prom, but he’d heard stories. Because being dropped meant he hadn’t turned into human-shaped charcoal, and it gave him a moment of quiet, or quieter, reflection on the floor of the bar as what looked and sounded like a small-scale war broke out. Spacers were drawing down on the newcomers and firing back, and all that was fine, but one thing was bothering Kohl.

  Joni.

  Because she was behind some shutters and the wood paneling of the bar, rated for broken glass and bad language, not blaster fire, and if she was back there then bad things could happen to her. Kohl wasn’t troubled on a day to day basis by his conscience, but she’d tried to warn him, or at least it had felt like that, and people who warned you were worth keeping on team.

  “Joni!” he yelled. “Joni, you alive back there?”

  “Fuck you, October Kohl!” she screamed back at him, her voice sounding like it was coming from the same floor-level height he was at. Tricky to tell, but it was a good start.

  “Later!” said Kohl. “Joni, I’ll come in there and get you out.” He unclipped the strap over the top of his blaster, pulled the weapon out, and pointed it up. Not at the shutters, because that was too high to climb right now, but the let’s-call-it-wood next to his head. And after a moment’s reflection, a little to the right. He pulled the trigger, a bright stab of plasma punching a hole through the paneling of the bar. He fired a couple more times, figuring that because he wasn’t firing at the front of the bar he wasn’t drawing much attention, because in his experience soldiers — if that’s what they were — liked to shoot at people shooting at them. Everything else scanned in at a lower priority. It was the kind of oversight that killed more soldiers than was necessary.